


Flowers in Winter

by Johns_Farthings



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, I had to write a poem for this fic please be kind, M/M, Poetry, Romantic Gestures, starecross hall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings
Summary: ‘It is a sonnet,’ said Master Groves. His father was a clergyman, and from a young age had given him many improving books to read. ‘At least of a fashion. The rhyme scheme is obvious, though the metre is less standard.’In the January of 1819 a mysterious but undoubtedly romantic poem is found by three pupils at Starecross Academy of Magic. They are wildly curious as to who wrote it – and, of course, who it is for.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	Flowers in Winter

There were not many pupils at Starecross Academy of Magic. Though there was plenty of space, the old house had only recently been established as a school, and the location was rather remote for fashionable folk. Its master was diligent, but not a famous magician, nor a particularly powerful one – at least, not in a manner that drew the attention of the wider world. So, though the intake of students increased every year, it was, in the January of 1819, still modest.

Miss Harding, Master Groves and Miss Verity were some of the younger pupils at this time. Master Groves was the eldest at fifteen, and Miss Harding the youngest at thirteen – though very nearly fourteen, as she never tired of reminding people. It was, in fact, Miss Harding who made the discovery. Feeling that she could not keep such a thing to herself – there was no delight in a secret if it was to _remain_ so – she naturally took it to Miss Verity, to whom she was close, and Miss Verity in turn fetched Master Groves. The three of them gathered quickly at the west edge of Starecross’s grounds, where the solemn trees that surrounded the house afforded some privacy to look over the mystery together.

The secret in question was a once-blank page that had clearly been torn from the back of a book. Someone had since written upon it in a messy hand, the words scattering over the paper like a confused body of ants.

‘It was in the kitchen,’ Miss Harding said. The weather was chill and damp, but Miss Harding had a naturally warm complexion, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. ‘Just lying under one of the chairs.’

‘The kitchen?’ Master Groves frowned. ‘Why were you there?’

‘I went to…check something. I thought I heard a noise.’

Miss Verity and Master Groves shared looks over Miss Harding’s head. Miss Harding’s father owned a confectionary shop in York, and she often complained of the cook’s stinginess at mealtimes.

‘Anyway,’ Miss Harding said quickly, ‘that is not important. What does it mean?’

The three pupils looked back at the paper. It read:

> _You are a peaceful garden in this land_
> 
> _of roads. Though I must ride their lonely trails,_
> 
> _I am a wanderer no more. No grand_
> 
> _house or hall took in my travelling sails,_
> 
> _only this gentle orchard of your love._
> 
> _So patiently built, old beginnings made_
> 
> _with rose and peony; purple fox-glove;_
> 
> _sunny tulip in a warm summer glade._

‘It is a sonnet,’ said Master Groves. His father was a clergyman, and from a young age had given him many improving books to read. ‘At least of a fashion. The rhyme scheme is obvious, though the metre is less standard.’

‘It cannot be a sonnet.’ Miss Verity, tall and skinny as an insect, shivered as the wind blew through the stern trees. ‘It is too short.’

‘Except,’ Master Groves said, ‘we may not have the whole of it.’

A hush descended as they each thought about what this might mean. In the quiet, a robin alighted on a gorse bush, cocked its head, and fluttered down amongst an early patch of snowdrops. 

‘Do we have the beginning part, or the end?’ Miss Harding said at last.

‘I would argue the beginning.’ Master Groves brought the paper closer to his face and squinted. ‘The rhyming seems to be of the English fashion, rather than Italian, which means that it should finish with a couplet.’

Miss Verity tutted. ‘Did you not notice another page?’

‘There wasn’t any more,’ Miss Harding protested. ‘I would have seen.’

‘Perhaps it is not yet complete. It looks in the early stages of writing.’ Master Groves handed the paper back to Miss Harding. ‘Someone will be missing it.’

There followed a pause, during which the robin decided there was nothing interesting amongst the snowdrops and took to the air. None of the three pupils paid it any attention. Nor did they suggest returning to the house.

‘I wonder who wrote it?’ Miss Harding said at last.

Miss Verity pursed her lips. ‘And who did they write it for? Clearly it is intended for someone.’

‘Well.’ Master Groves rubbed his chin, which was growing cold. ‘Let us be logical about it.’

‘Love isn’t logical,’ Miss Harding said, with what might have been taken for a sigh.

‘Perhaps not, but a sonnet is. It has a structure, and the words must be carefully chosen. Whoever wrote this has revised it many times, and it is clearly personal. First of all, was it written by a man or a woman? I would argue a man, because the writing is so untidy.’

‘Ladies may have poor handwriting.’ Miss Verity would never win any prizes for neatness, and was rather sensitive about the point.

‘Perhaps, but there are other suggestions too - for example, the author is someone who travels regularly. Not that ladies cannot do so,’ he added, catching Miss Verity’s rather beady look, ‘but it is less common, and I cannot think of any such women who have been at Starecross recently.’ 

Miss Harding looked down at the paper. ‘Which gentlemen are at Starecross at the moment – or at least were here last night?’

‘Mr Hadley-Bright?’ said Miss Verity. ‘He has stayed for the past week.’

Master Groves nodded. ‘And Mr Levy came with him - both of those gentlemen travel.’

‘There is Mr Childermass too,’ said Miss Harding. ‘He is always coming and going, and he is often in the kitchen.’

The others looked at her for a moment, and Master Groves supressed a smile. ‘I do not think Mr Childermass is the kind to write poetry, do you?’

‘It must be Mr Hadley-Bright.’ Miss Verity, though she would have denied it vehemently if asked, thought that Mr Hadley-Bright was the handsomest man in the world. ‘He is the most romantic – why, he looks just like an adventuring poet.’

‘He is pleasantly-featured,’ Master Groves said, ‘but that does not necessarily mean he is romantic.’

The debate went on a little longer – even Mr Segundus was suggested as the author, though it was mutually agreed that he did not travel often, and that his handwriting was much neater than the example they had in front of them. In the end, it was decided that the poet must be Mr Hadley-Bright, because Miss Harding remembered that she had seen him reading a volume of verse in the garden the previous summer.

‘But,’ said Master Groves, ‘if Mr Hadley-Bright is the poet, then who is the poem for?’

It was an equally intriguing question.

‘Miss Redruth?’ said Miss Harding, ‘she spends lots of time with Mr Hadley-Bright.’

‘Would you describe Miss Redruth as gentle?’ Miss Verity replied, pointing at the paper, which was now looking decidedly more battered than it had when Miss Harding had found it. ‘ _“A gentle orchard”_?’

It was swiftly decided that, though Miss Redruth was very beautiful, the poem did not suit her.

‘What of this line?’ said Master Groves, ‘ _“old beginnings_ ”? That is very strange.’

Miss Verity frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It is a wrong phrasing; it does not make sense. Beginnings are new. They are not old.’

‘Perhaps,’ Miss Harding said slowly, ‘it means that Mr Hadley-Bright has known this lady for a long time, but that they did not fall in love until recently? An old beginning?’

‘That could return us to Miss Redruth, except the bit about the orchard.’

‘What about Miss Ansell? She is rather quiet.’ Miss Verity scanned the paper, perhaps a little jealously.

‘But Miss Ansell only came to Starecross two months ago,’ Miss Harding said, ‘I do not think that is an old beginning.’

‘Perhaps they knew each other before.’

‘I do not think so. In fact, it cannot be her.’ Miss Harding rattled the paper for emphasis. ‘Look at the flowers.’

‘The flowers?’ 

‘Here – “ _sunny tulip_.” Miss Ansell has fair hair – yellow does not flatter her. In fact, I do not think that I have ever seen her wear it.’

Master Groves frowned. ‘Purple and yellow. Who would suit such colours?’

‘Miss Thomas in the village has dark hair. I have seen her wear a purple hat, and it looked very well on her.’

‘Perhaps Mr Hadley-Bright did not consider what the flowers looked like,’ said Miss Verity. ‘Perhaps he only thought about what they meant. Tulips and roses are mean love, but I do not know about the rest.’

‘Fox-gloves are tied to magic.’ Master Groves frowned. ‘There is a rather nasty tale of a fairy who was offended by being presented with a fox-glove.’

‘Magic does not help us,’ said Miss Verity. ‘Everyone at Starecross has some connection to it.’

‘It may mean something more than that – fox-gloves can also provide protection against malicious spells, because they are bell-shaped.’ He sighed. ‘That is the problem with magic. It so often contradicts itself.’

‘As does love,’ said Miss Harding, sounding rather wiser than her years.

They debated the issue of the poet’s subject for some time, but no matter how much they argued back and forth the three pupils could not seem to settle upon the right lady. Miss Freeman’s temper was too hot; Miss Heath, a gentlewoman in the next village, was well-known to dislike magicians; and Miss Lawbeck, though perhaps the most suitable, was already courting a tailor from York. Miss Seymore was too stern, Miss Somer-Smith too young. Some of the maids were mentioned, but, as Master Groves said rather bluntly, he could not see Mr Hadley-Bright writing a poem for a maid. 

‘Perhaps,’ he said at last, ‘we have the wrong man after all.’

The group groaned.

‘This is exhausting,’ Miss Harding said, ‘I cannot bear to go through it all again, and think which of the ladies at Starecross Mr Levy knows.’

‘Or Mr Roberts from the village,’ Miss Verity added, ‘we did not consider him at all. He has a great many books, and he sometimes visits.’

‘Oh, I wish I had never found the thing,’ said Miss Harding, ‘it will drive me quite wild with not knowing.’

‘Not knowing what?’

The group started, then turned guiltily in the direction of the voice.

‘Come,’ said Mr Segundus, who stood between them and the house with his breath rising white into the grey sky, ‘what has you hiding in the garden, and late for your dinner?’

The pupils looked at each other. So occupied, they had not noticed that the sun was now past its peak.

Miss Harding held out the paper. It had already been seen, and it was difficult to lie to the headmaster of Starecross. It was not that he was particularly severe, but the pupils, young and old, found that he could be remarkably perceptive.

Mr Segundus reached out and took the paper. He ran his eye over it once, then again.

‘Did one of you write this?’ he said at last.

Red-faced, the pupils shook their heads.

‘Miss Harding found it,’ Miss Verity burst out, ‘in the kitchen. She took it.’

Mr Segundus raised an eyebrow, and she fell silent.

‘You are all three late for dinner,’ he said. ‘And I am sure that you have _all_ read this.’

Miss Verity looked at her feet.

‘I know that I will not need to tell you again,’ Mr Segundus went on, ‘that it is not right to pry into other people’s private things. And Miss Harding, you know that you are not permitted in the kitchen.’

The pupils looked at each other, and a chorus of ‘sorry sirs’ broke through the cold air. Mr Segundus nodded, then neatly folded the ragged paper into quarters and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

‘I shall take care of this,’ he said. ‘The three of you had better go in for your dinner before it is spoiled.’

The pupils looked at each other and, resigned to their curiosity, turned and hurried towards the house.

* * *

‘I must admit that I was quite surprised,’ Segundus said several hours later, when night had fallen and the rest of Starecross was asleep. ‘I never expected such a thing of you.’

Segundus’s bedchamber was on the east side of the house, neatly tucked-away amongst the rambling corridors and haphazard rooms. As headmaster, he might have taken a larger room, but he preferred comfortable, simple spaces over grand ones. The room was not large, but it was big enough for a bed and wardrobe. A solid desk nestled beneath a window that overlooked the brown moor – on a clear day, it was possible to see the hills for a good many miles. Segundus liked to look out of it as he worked, and watch the sun rise.

There was also another, secret, advantage of the room – it was the only chamber on the second floor of the house that faced east. This meant that Segundus was quite secluded at nights, with no-one nearby who might hear him should he retire late, or have company.

This evening, he was neither asleep nor alone. The moon reached silver fingers through the shutters and fell across the desk, lighting a small cup with a single, white snowdrop placed inside it. A candle flickered on a small table. Segundus laid on the bed in only his nightshirt, his hands folded on his stomach and his legs bent so that his bare feet pressed gently into the mattress and his knees pointed towards the ceiling. His head rested in someone’s lap. The owner of the lap was not one that Miss Verity, Miss Harding, or Master Groves would have guessed, if indeed they had expected Mr Segundus to rest his head in anyone’s lap, which they – and most people who knew him – would have been rather surprised at.

‘It is not finished,’ said John Childermass. ‘You were not meant to see it until tomorrow.’

‘Well, even half-finished, it is very romantic.’ Segundus shifted, pressing the back of his neck against Childermass’s thigh. ‘What is the occasion? My birthday is not until the summer.’

Childermass hummed under his breath. He held a book in his left hand but had not turned a page in some minutes, and his right hand toyed absently with Segundus’s hair, twisting a stray lock gently around his index finger.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘it will be twelve years since we first met at Hurtfew.’

‘Oh!’ Segundus looked crestfallen. ‘You should have told me. That part is always rather hazy, and I have been so busy with Mr Meadows. His daughter shows great promise, but he is a very demanding sort, and I-’

‘Hush.’ Childermass gently unwound his hand from the lock of hair. ‘I did not expect anything in return. I only wanted to give you something.’

‘You brought me a lovely snowdrop.’

‘Something more than that.’ He shrugged. ‘I have been away, and you are deserving of it.’ 

The candlelight wavered across Segundus’s cheeks as they turned pink.

‘I still cannot understand how I left the paper in the kitchen.’ Carefully, Childermass closed the book and set it aside. ‘I think it must have fallen out when I took my pipe from my pocket.’

‘You are quite fortunate that none of them guessed it was you who wrote it. Though I must admit, you would not be my first choice either.’

Childermass smiled, softening the lines of his face. ‘Mr Norrell owned a great many books. Most of them were of magic, but there were others, neglected though they were. I found that I occasionally had a little time for something other than magic.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Though, I have not tried to write anything before.’

‘Have you not?’

‘I never had the inspiration.’ He looked down, and his lip twitched. ‘You are a bad influence.’

Segundus's eyes widened, but there was a mischievous glint in them. ‘Am I?’

‘You and this cold. It makes me wish for summer.’ Childermass moved his hand to the collar of Segundus’s nightgown, twitching it so that the golden light fell across his neck and shoulder. ‘I think if you had told me twelve years ago that I would try my hand at poetry, I would have laughed.’

Segundus smiled. ‘An old beginning?’

‘Hush. You must pretend that you have not seen it until tomorrow.’

‘Very well.’ Segundus lifted his head from Childermass’s lap and rolled over to sit across his legs, placing his hands on Childermass’s shoulders. ‘I am patient.’

Childermass grinned. ‘You do not appear very patient right now.’

‘Ah.’ Segundus reached for Childermass’s waistcoat buttons. ‘Not all of the time.’

Childermass's laughter rippled through the room like rain.

* * *

> _**A Sonnet for John** _
> 
> _You are a peaceful garden in this land_   
>  _of roads. Though I must ride their lonely trails,_   
>  _I am a wanderer no more. No grand_   
>  _house or hall took in my travelling sails,_   
>  _only this gentle orchard of your love._   
>  _So patiently built, old beginnings made_   
>  _with rose and peony; purple fox-glove;_   
>  _sunny tulip in a warm summer glade._   
>  _Forget-me-not when I must bid adieu_   
>  _for I will always return to this place –_   
>  _the garden guides me ever back to you,_   
>  _to keep me safe in your ivied embrace._   
>  _For though snow will fall and ice will splinter_   
>  _your smile grows flowers in deepest winter._

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine that more than just magic books found their way to Hurtfew, and a part of me thinks that Childermass, though he loves magic best, is interested in all kinds of reading when he has the time for it. He might just be curious enough to try his hand at writing something, for a deserving cause.


End file.
